


Don't Call My Name

by LMT



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Lady Gaga was not harmed in the making of this story, nun kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: He has never seen anything like this video in all his life, and he can’t stop staring.  The woman on the next barstool laughs at him.  “What,” she teases, “You got a nun kink, or something?”Perhaps he has.  He does some research.  And he summons up the nerve to say something to Agatha about it, but he can't make eye contact as he does.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

He’s sitting in a pub pretending to drink, just enjoying the sights, when he catches something out of the corner of his eye. A glimpse of something on one of the TV screens above the bar. A flash of-? But no. When he whips his head around to look more carefully, the image is gone, and the screen is just a collection of mostly-naked dancers, undulating on beds. 

He watches a moment, trying to imagine whether such dancers would have excited him when he was alive, but in any event they certainly do not anymore. He gives up and is just about to look away-

When the picture changes and _there she is again._ A nun.

He feels his mouth fall open stupidly. His head spins. Not _really_ a nun, he sees immediately; her lips are painted bright blood red and they match her habit, and as he watches she parts them and takes a rosary _into her mouth_.

A _rosary._ In her _mouth._

It’s appalling, and disgusting, and completely riveting. The image lasts only for a few seconds, and once it’s gone he is bowled over by an uncontrollable and frantic need to _get it back_.

“Who- what is that?” he stammers, eyes still fixed on the screen, reaching out blindly with both hands to seize someone. His hands find a waitress and drag her to him. “What is that television show?” he demands, turning her by the chin. “That, her, the nun, who is she?”

Other patrons intervene, trying to pry him off, and he could swear he’s being reasonable but no one understands or helps him until finally, just as he’s about to lose all shreds of patience and slaughter the entire crowd, a woman near him laughs in his ear.

“That was Lady Gaga.” He turns to look at her. (The show has changed now, the vision gone, or he would never, ever have looked away.) She laughs when she sees his face; he must look like the village idiot. “What,” she teases, “You got a nun kink, or something?”

He rifles through the information he has been absorbing recently. _Kink,_ he knows _kink._ He’s glossed right over it as irrelevant to him, but he does have at least a cursory understanding of what it means. But... _nun kink_? He has never heard the term, but it is making his cheeks hot and his teeth ache.

He needs to know more. He digs deep and manages to turn on the charm. “I... think I might,” he says to her, with his shyest and most winning smile. “What are you drinking?” He’ll get her out of here, somewhere private, and start his research with whatever she’s got inside her. He has a lot of questions. What is _nun kink,_ where is _Lady Gaga,_ and in the meantime how can he get his television to play that particular bit of the show over, and over, and over again.

* * *

**TBC.**

**I really like the idea of Count Dracula using the bite as an alternative to googling. (I know he doesn’t actually need to anymore now that he has a smartphone, but I imagine he reverts back to his old habits when gobsmacked.). We take for granted now the ability to get online and learn new information or skills in the blink of an eye, but think how that ability must have set him apart back in the day when nobody else could do it.**

**I may at some point write a little more for story. Don’t worry, he is _not_ going to stalk Lady Gaga. It’s crack, I guess, but not _that_ much crack. The video in question is for her song Alejandro, in case you were wondering, and the title here is from the lyrics.**

**Let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

“You look-...”

“So different from my photos. Yeah, I know.” The girl grins at him, showing teeth – nothing like the red mean smiles on her fetish page. “I can’t go for groceries in latex, can I.”

So far he likes her. “Well I mean, you _could_.” He nods to the empty chair. “Please.”

A waitress appears like magic, tea already prepared. The girl must be known here. Of course she would invite him to a place where she feels safe. “Do you interview all your men before you take the plunge?” he asks suddenly. “Or just the odd foreign nobles whose ideal date would culminate in the drinking of blood?”

She laughs and holds up her hands. “Wait. No getting in character just yet. I need to talk to you for a couple of minutes first.”

Character. Right. He smiles and settles back in his seat. “Sorry – just eager. I told you, this will be my first time.”

(It’s true, in a sense. It _will_ be his first time arranging an evening with someone for gratification other than a bite. He has done plenty of research about the possibilities though, and discovered that they are vast. Sexual deviances he wouldn’t mention in a _whisper_ during his lifetime are now common practice – and new deviances are being thought up every day.).

This girl is no stranger to deviance. They talk. She looks extremely ordinary, nothing like her photos – especially the ones in her latex nun habit – and it makes it a little easier to control himself and give her exactly what she is looking for. He needs to make her comfortable enough with him to accompany him to his apartment.

He’s already told her what he wants her to _do_ there, but now she requests a little more background about his desires. All he can say about _them_ is a dark laugh. Luckily, instead of being put off she rephrases: asks him to describe his favorite fantasy to her. So he tells her about his feeding, his castle, even a little about the convent and the ship. It’s a fantasy – a completely imaginary adventure that of course has never been realized in any measure, at all, ever. Of course.

She sips her tea and takes it all in stride. Occasionally she interrupts him with questions, occasionally she asks for more detail, and watches him carefully as he responds.

He tells her about the revolting image from the Lady Gaga video. He tells her how it affected him, though he isn’t really able to explain why.

(He definitely does _not_ tell her about his quest – determined and expensive and ultimately successful – to obtain the entire universe of footage that had been shot of Lady Gaga in the nun outfit. He doesn’t tell her he is planning to hire someone to cut and polish it to suit him.).

When she finally sits back in her seat, he does too. She looks thoughtful.

“So will you play with me?” He feels a little tentative. “No sex. I just want...”

“A show.” She repeats back to him the words of his very first email. “A very particular kind of show.”

“Yes.” She’s never expressed surprise at anything he suggested to her; maybe his _kinks_ are all completely ordinary after all. “Questions?”

She cocks her head. “Anything you want me to call you in scene?”

He knows that many people invent new names for themselves, alter-egos for these types of adventures. But he is what he is. “ _Count_ is fine.”

She huffs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not asking how to address you respectfully,” she explains, “I’m asking about the opposite. Are there are any words in particular that push your buttons?”

 _Oh._ He’s done enough investigation to know the kinds of words she has in mind, and he considers. The source of his _nun kink_ had always been cruel to him and he’d lapped it up (literally), but he doesn’t expect this stranger to be able to touch him in precisely the same way. He shakes his head.

“Nothing?” she presses, smirking a little. Taunting. “You don’t want to be called names?”

How is he supposed to answer that? Of course he doesn’t. And yet, she’s mocking and challenging him _now,_ and he’s rather enjoying it _._

He frowns. “Well if... maybe if it’s going well...” But if she reads his mood wrong and offends him, he’ll rip her throat open. He shakes his head. “Never mind.” 

“No, no.” Suddenly she’s not mocking at all; she’s all earnest encouragement and she leans forward. “You’re thinking of something. Tell me. If the moment’s right...?”

He wavers.

“Tell you what,” she proposes, smiling. “Say what it is, and then _if_ you’re up for it, you give me a hand signal.”

That much he can agree to. An option he’ll have, just in case. He’s sure he won’t want it. He nods and shows her a gesture, which he is certain he is never going to use. Then he looks away. Steels himself, and tries to say it without remembering. “Boy.”

* * *

**TBC?**

**He’s got at least as much an agatha-kink as a nun kink, and I suspect the next-best thing will not be enough forever. So, I think he will one day scamper into his dreamscape, maybe bringing along his new friend or at least pilfering some of her wardrobe, and hope that Sister Agatha is willing to play. I haven’t written that yet, because I’m not sure how it will turn out, but it’s on my mind!**

**Let me know what you think of this so far. :-)**


	3. Chapter 3

He’s carried her with him in his veins, as he promised, but he’s taken in a _lot_ of lives over the years and sometimes it is hard to single her out from the multitude.

It helps that she was strong, so very strong, and that he took a great deal of her blood. It helps that he took his time with her, that they bonded as he dreamed with her for weeks.

He finds her one night in an armchair, reading and sipping from a goblet that looks like his. Hers _will_ be wine, of course, but he likes the appearance anyway. “Agatha,” he says warmly, “Good evening.” He’s more than delighted to see her.

“Is it a good evening?” She puts her book down and stands up. “I’ve been wondering what you get up to in the evenings recently.” She gestures around to the walls, which are lined with bookcases. “I’ve lately been finding some very strange volumes in here. Pertaining to what are decidedly not your usual interests.”

Well _that_ is embarrassing. So he goes on the offensive. “And how have you been enjoying them?”

“How do you think?” Just slightly scathing. “I had no interest in such things when I was alive; I have even less use for them now.”

She’s earned the right to be sharp with him, given their circumstances, so he converses instead of arguing. “You know, I thought that as well,” he says, “But it turns out that you never know until you try. It’s been fun. What?” he protests, in response to the Look she gives him. “These pursuits are harmless. You should be happy.”

“What do you care if I’m happy or not,” she laughs. It’s harsh and mirthless. “You killed me.”

He looks her straight in the eyes. Just as he did the last time he saw her. _The last thing your eyes will ever see-_ “I’ve rather come to regret that,” he whispers, truthfully.

She frowns. “I didn’t know you can feel regret.”

“Neither did I. Call it personal growth.” The phrase rolls off his tongue; he recently ate a therapist. (...And then several of her clients, to deepen his understanding of what exactly she had done to them. He learned that the effort these mortals had expended in trying to heal and better themselves was enormous; he’s deeply grateful that he has more efficient means at his disposal.).

She’s still looking at him a little suspiciously, as if she fears he may be mocking her. But he’s not. When he wants to mock her, she’ll know _._

“Mm. Well. It’s a bit odd that you’ve chosen to grow in this particular direction,” she says briskly, “But each to his own.”

He hadn’t realized how eager he was to talk to her about this, but suddenly he sees that he _is_ and that it’s probably the entire reason he’s dreaming of her tonight. “Do you want to know how it started?”

“Not particularly.” She sits and nods to the other armchair. “But I’m certain you are going to tell me anyway.” She folds her hands beneath her chin and beams at him, the Perfect Listener.

He settles down. He wishes he had a glass too, but he hasn’t yet mastered the art of drinking in his mind when he’s not drinking in body as well. Hmm. Perhaps that’s another area he can grow in.

“I saw a video,” he begins. Then frowns. Does she know _video_? He’s not sure how much information she takes in, when he takes it from others compared to when he devours it from the internet under his own power. “It was an image. Of a woman – a beautiful woman, beautifully photographed, flawless – dressed as a nun. Now, she was not _really_ a nun.” His mouth is curving into a smile at the thought of it. “She was... made up.” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Decidedly not like a nun.”

Agatha nods. “She was made up like a harlot,” she guesses. “You’ve never seen a nun made up like a harlot before?”

He stares at her. Is she joking? Or suggesting that…?

“Oh, don’t look so shocked. Of course we do. It can get boring in the convent, at night.”

“Are you serious?” he finally manages. Is she making fun of him? “Are you telling me that you-...”

“That I personally have painted my face in fun once or twice? Yes.” Her smile is fond and faraway. “Mother Superior chastised us when she caught us, but nobody really minded. _That_ was harmless.” Then she sharpens up. “So. This painted nun. What did she do, that made such an impression on you?”

“Uhm.” It’s strangely awkward to say it. “She put-...” He looks away.

Agatha gets up, and walks around his chair until she is planted directly in front of his face again. She squats down so that their faces are close. Her eyebrows are raised higher than he has ever seen. “She put...?” she prompts.

“Rosary beads,” he chokes out at last. Touches himself on the lip. “In her-, her mouth.” He swallows hard; now he’s _thinking_ about it.

“She put rosary beads in her mouth,” Agatha repeats coolly. “I see.” She tilts her head. “And you liked that?”

“ _No,_ ” he insists, “I did not. It was horrifying. Repulsive. Completely unwatchable.”

Her smile is knowing. “And yet you’ve watched it. Again and again and again, if I’m not mistaken.”

She knows damn well she is not mistaken; he doesn’t even need to admit it. He just sighs helplessly, and concedes with a shrug.

She smiles more gently as she reaches out. She puts her hand on his cheek – an intimacy he has never sought or received from her in the past. “Of course,” she says. “It’s anathema to you, and yet still you’re drawn to it.” She releases him, and quirks her lips. “I’m sure I can’t imagine how _that_ must feel.”

She goes and takes her seat again, and he can’t take his eyes off her.

The longing is too much. He has to destroy the moment, any way he can. “So apparently,” he announces, “There’s such a thing as a _nun kink._ ”

And he has it. He has it bad.

* * *

**TBC.**

Okay, there we go. They needed to have a private discussion before he introduces Agatha to a new friend. Now that they’ve had it, maybe I can write this. We shall see.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: The first chunk has (sacrilegious though not incredibly graphic) period cunnilingus. Be thee warned! Skip to the first breakline if you want to avoid that.**

* * *

“I smell blood on you,” he tells her before she even gets her coat off. 

“Oh.” The girl seems surprised. “Yeah, my period. Sorry – didn’t realize you’d notice. Um. Do you want to reschedule?”

“Reschedule?” he repeats, incredulous. “Because you’re bleeding? _Me_?”

She arches eyebrows; she’s always been careful about fluids. But they’ve been meeting for months, and she’s coming to trust him. “All right,” she says at last.

She disappears into the bathroom and, as usual, emerges in character. It’s not the latex this time – but she’s got her head covered, and she’s wearing a plain, loose dress that suggests a habit.

She holds her hand out to him solemnly – low. 

He kneels. This puts him even closer to the smell and he can hear his breath start to harshen.

She pulls her skirt up over her hips and steps one foot onto a chair to spread herself for him. He stares at her. Thirsts for her. (And enjoys the anticipation of _finally_ satisfying that thirst; he can’t remember ever waiting for someone this long.).

Then she says: “ _This is my blood._ ” 

He recoils, hissing – he’s never heard the ritual in English but it’s as unmistakable as it is unbearable. “ _The blood of the new and everlasting covenant._ ” He’s panting so loudly he can hear himself, gripping his thighs so hard he pierces his own skin. He wants to cower, to hide, to roll around in sandpaper until he can scour the words _off_ him. He can’t handle this.

She finishes anyway, undisturbed by the force of his reaction. “ _It will be shed for you_.” She reaches between her legs with one hand, and holds two red-streaked fingers out to him. “For you,” she repeats, more conversational. “Go ahead.”

After what she just did to him he _needs_ this. He seizes her wrist with both hands to suck at her (and clings with everything he has to the imperative that _he must not bite._ ). Her fingers are soon finished but the source is still there, near and open and bleeding, and he presses into it so forcefully he nearly bowls her over.

She spreads her hand on his head gently, like a blessing. He shudders and laps harder.

* * *

The room usually feels like a warm, comfortable study, but today the rugs are gone and the stone is cold. The lights are dim and far away. He can hear distant dripping.

Agatha is facing him, but unlike most times she doesn’t seem relaxed. She is as tense as she’d been at the gates - and as ready to fight. “I see you’ve redecorated,” she says. “Who is that?”

He realizes in that instant that the girl is with him and that he’s holding her hand. That surprises him a little; he hasn’t actually bitten her (he hopes) and he’s not actually drinking from her veins. He notices she feels less solid in his grip than she does in his apartment.

He has a glass in his free hand; he takes a sip. “Agatha, I’d like you to meet a new friend of mine,” he says pleasantly. “ _She’s_ the one who redecorated. She likes dungeons.”

“Oh-!” the girl scoffs at him, laughing, and pulls her hand free. “Come on.”

“You do!” he laughs right back. “It’s the first thing you told me, when I wrote you. Remember? _Sounds right up my alley,_ you said, _I love gothic! Castles and dungeons._ _You name it._ ”

Agatha clears her throat pointedly. “Isn’t she a little young for you, Count? Say... by about five hundred years or so?”

Her tone is harsh and not at all playful. He can guess why – she’s a woman, isn’t she? “Don’t be jealous,” he chides, crossing the room to her with a bit of swagger. “ _You_ turned me down, remember? You wouldn’t invite me in. You set a mob on me. You even lit me on fire.”

“And would again,” she says immediately. To the girl: “You would be wise to do the same.” She regards more carefully. “So who is she? You’re able to talk to her without stammering like a besotted schoolboy, so I’m assuming she is not the painted nun from your video.”

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately the woman from the video was... unattainable,” he explains. “There was no practical way to take her without a commotion of massive proportions.”

“Take her?” the girl speaks up. “Were you seriously thinking of kidnapping Lady Gaga?”

Agatha seizes on her question. “Oh, don’t let it shock you,” she says, “There is _no level_ to which Count Dracula will not stoop.”

“Careful,” he growls. If she spoils things for him he will be furious. (And what can he do about it? She’s dead and well beyond his reach.). 

“The first time I met the count he was crawling out of the belly of a wolf,” she goes on, ignoring him. “It was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen in my life. He emerged naked, writhing on the ground covered in blood – and I knew at once he was no man, no matter what his form looked like.”

The talk of blood and nakedness, the memory of that night, riles him up in ways other than anger. He engages. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! _Babies_ come out naked and covered in blood, too,” he points out. He enjoys fighting with her. “And I don’t see you complaining about _them_.”

She snorts. “You’d love to do like a baby, wouldn’t you.” A hundred years hasn’t dulled that contempt. “Latch yourself on and nurse at that poor girl’s breast for as long as you wanted, take from her all you wanted, just take and take and take.”

He’s very close to her now, so close that she has to look up to meet his eyes. He lets out a rumbling laugh, soft, only for her. “I’d latch on to _someone_ , certainly.”

“Keep dreaming,” she sneers, and he could swear she enjoys fighting with him too. “You’ve had all you’ll ever get from me. But still you’re starving for more.” She tosses her head. “You will starve forever.”

He gives a long-suffering sigh and addresses the girl. “See?” he says. “Do you see what I’ve been dealing with?”

The girl is watching intently. “Yeah. I do.”

So Agatha turns to her as well. “Don’t let him fool you, child,” she says. “He’s wit and charm and mystery when it suits him, but he _kills_ for pleasure and with no remorse. Dracula is cruel and dangerous. He is evil.”

At that he interrupts her. “You’re wasting your time, Agatha. They don’t believe in evil anymore, where she comes from.”

Agatha looks from him to the girl and back again, several times. She’s cold and certain. “They will.”

* * *

Back in his apartment, the girl has gone to pieces under his mouth. Hanging onto his hair is no longer enough to keep her upright; he has to stand and scoop her into his arms.

She lays there like a bride, limp except for the twitching of her muscles in the aftermath of pleasure. “Wow,” she breathes against his chest. “Holy fuck.”

He snorts. His craving has been, if not satisfied, at least made manageable, and he’s able to put his teeth away and talk normally. “Not in character anymore, I see.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Oh my god.” She helps situate herself on the couch when he sets her down. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard _ever._ Wow.” She looks at him a little more carefully. “I think I hallucinated.”

He hesitates. Tell her? He hates to risk what they have, especially now that they have added such a delightful new activity to their repertoire.

But he can’t hide forever. “Do you remember it?”

Her brow draws and she chews her lip. “Some,” she answers at last. “We were talking to a nun. A real nun,” she adds, laughing. “A much better nun than me.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” he scolds warmly. “You are hands down the best nun... who’s ever had an orgasm in my mouth.” He watches her smile and touch his face with affection. She looks almost drugged.

“I don’t remember all of it,” she confesses. Yawns. She will probably fall asleep soon. “I did figure out one thing, though.”

“Oh?” There can be wonderful insights in the blood-dreams, he knows that. “What thing?”

“Hm? Oh. That I know I’m good at roleplay, and a little bit of blood stuff is okay. So I hope you’re having fun with me,” she murmurs, eyes closing, “But. I realized it’ll never be perfect for you. You’ve got a-” she yawns again “-A really, like, deep need.”

 _Damn_ Agatha for frightening the girl! He’s told her what he is, but until now she’s never seemed to believe it enough to become disturbed. “Don’t worry about that.” He takes her hand in both of his and addresses her with all of the grave sincerity he can muster. “I can, and I will, control my thirst where you are concerned.”

The girl yawns once more, shaking her head. “No no,” she says. “Not blood. I meant, _her_.”

* * *

**The End.**

Sorry it's not exactly a happy ending! But his kink needs are way easier to satisfy than his agatha needs, which are going to fester sadly forever because that's what happens when you _kill_ the object of your infatuation. Live and learn, Count. Oh well!

Thanks so much for the comments, and I hope you enjoyed! I'm glad there was more here than just a cracky one-shot.


End file.
